BODIES

The dead babies didn't make me cry. I was crying long before that.

I cried at the brains first. At lost memories, not lost life. Long term memories are stored as chemicals in the brain, and the middle of the exhibit, I made the mistake of wondering. Of wondering if any of the chemicals were still there. If there were any memories still locked away, in sealed up brains on glass displays, never to be remembered again. What did they know that nobody else ever did? Happy memories? Did they remember growing up? Loving family? Awkward crushes? Were they ever in  love? The bodies on display were supposedly unclaimed. They were homeless, and I was suddenly scared of the locked memories, maybe of pain I don't want to know.

The reproductive exhibit was worse. It's personal. A rubbery looking coronal slice of a vagina and ovaries were shut beneath a glass case. Who was she? What was her first period like? Was she scared? When did she lose her virginity? Was she ready?

I felt heavy, dripping with memories, inevitably dying and ultimately forgotten. Stupidly, I thought I could handle the fetus room.

In the dark, they floated slowly, gently, trapped in their glass tubes. Predictably, I cry again, but not for them. They're clean, they hold no memories, no life. Or maybe, they never lived. Or maybe they should've. Or maybe, their lives just didn't matter. But when I cry, it's not for them. It's for the mothers that will never be. What went through their minds when they lost their baby? Their new family? The first fetus is so tiny, so insignificant, that maybe the mother didn't even know she was pregnant. Maybe she cried harder than I'm crying now.

On Without End

"Family Guy's not funny," I groan, falling back on the couch and pulling a pillow over my face in a half mocking disgust. The remote refuses to fast forward through any more commercials.

"And why's that?" asks my dad. I know that "just because" won't work as an answer. Never does, not with him. All opinions must be backed by facts and reasons. Cite your sources. This much, he has taught me well. Sitting up again, I chew on my lip, taking my time digging for solid reasoning and a backed debate.

"It's offensive," I start, "Take that, for instance," I flick my wrist at the screen. The fat man, propped behind a fast food counter, nasally boasts "Ding, fries are done!" again and again in a painfully annoying loop of animation without much substance.

"The Carol of the Bells is a beautiful song, and deserves respect."

"And that's why you don't like it?" he prompts.

"Well, yes. It's disrespectful towards, well, everything."

"Right," he tells me. He beams slightly, as though he's proud that I've figured something out. "It respects nothing. Unless you can put aside your own beliefs, you can't find that show funny."

There's no moral to this, specifically. I've figured out why I don't like Family Guy. But this isn't about simply not liking a show. It's about being able to have a reason behind it. Interaction always involves conflict, a disagreement. The trick to conflict is being able to debate. If you can back your reasoning, you can always come full circle, with a little more understanding on your side, instead of a shallow and empty "Just because."

Life?

It didnt ever occur to me before, how animals are raised just to be killed. What is that? What is life? They live to die.

On my desk, pots sit, erupting with vines that spill over the edges, their curly tendrils grabbing at the nearby sticks. I dribble water into dirt, and I swear, I can see them perk up. There are three pods hanging from the twirling stems, swollen with peas, which will soon be planted in their own pots.
You harvest plants. They do not have to die.

Is that life? Fattened, slaughtered, killed, wasted. Death.

I'm Secretly a Bad Person

Listen to Jackie Greene's "Call Me, Corinna" as you read this. The lyrics don't make sense, but the mood does. It makes it seem like a movie soundtrack.


I'm shallow. I'm jealous. I know.
My newsfeed is flooded with pictures. Happy people, pretty people. Cheesy poses, cheesy smiles. Fist pumps, laughing. Sunglasses and inside jokes. Sequined purses and coach buses. Juniors. Seniors. Sophomores? Freshmen? College students. Lovers. Friends. Pity dates.

It didn't bother me. Not during planning, or when people started asking. I'd never thought I'd go. But then, sophomores went. Freshmen? Intricate plans to take entire social circles formed. My best friend. People out of high school. And still, not me. Never me.

Which, even then, didn't bother me. Until I realized it would never be me in those pictures. I'm leaving. And even then, this last hurrah with all of my friends, I spent at home. I won't be missed, I'm not sure I was ever there in the beginning. There will be no last hurrah. No going-away party. I'll be out of their lives, none of us any wiser for it.